When I was little, I always thought I would see my parents again.
Every night before bed, Grandpa would tell me stories about their adventures. He would exaggerate, but hearing those stories made me feel closer to them.
It wasn't until I was nine years old that I asked Grandpa for the real story. I wanted to know the truth. What were my parents really like? Why did they leave? And where were they now?
Well, I got answers to some of my questions. Unfortunately, Grandpa couldn't answer them all...
So I did research. I looked up anything I could find about the places they visited. But as my interest grew, so did my hunger to see them. It was hard not to think about them all the time, especially when I saw other kids with their parents.
Every day, I hoped for a sign..any sign that my parents were coming home soon...but none came.
It was becoming clear that the chances of seeing them again were slim. What were the odds of them surviving the jungle and showing up at our doorstep after so many years?
One day, I couldn't take it anymore...
I was sick of waiting for them to return. I couldn't handle another night dreaming of us together...to wake up and realize the truth…
So I packed up their things and put them in the attic. Grandpa tried to talk me out of it. He told me I shouldn't get rid of my memories, but I couldn't go another day like this…
It was too painful...
I didn't want to think about them anymore...
It was time for me to move on and accept that I would never see them again...